


Of Saints and Valentines

by falsettodrop



Series: Cupid’s Reckoning [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 12:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsettodrop/pseuds/falsettodrop
Summary: They fight, but this time they do it together.(A timestamp for soulmate-verse.)





	Of Saints and Valentines

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I have four WIP fics going at the moment, which is a little absurd for me? I’ve never felt so restless with my writing—I’m usually focused on one, I get that done, and then I’m onto the next. (I suppose this is me telling you guys that if I manage to finish those that I have like three fics coming after this... eventually, lol.)
> 
> I was supposed to write this for Valentine’s Day, actually, as a birthday gift to myself, but... I needed to write this timestamp today, for some reason. I know a lot of people wanted more happy times from the longer story, so this is that. It’s beyond sweet, so not like part one at all. (Also, all laws in this story have been made up by me because this is my universe and I do what I want, hahaha.)
> 
> Anyway. Endless thanks to [bucketofrice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice) for the beta-read, and I hope that those of you reading enjoy.

  **SICILY //** **FEBRUARY 14, 2015**

 

“Tess,” she hears. A quiet, far-away whisper, but enough to get to her in her sleep-induced state. Her bed companion nudges her with his feet, toes wiggling against her calf. Louder, but still in a whisper, he says it again: “Tessa.”

She kicks him.

“Hey,” he whisper-yells, offense creeping into his voice. “ _Teeeeeeeee_.”

“Mm,” she mumbles, snuggling into the her fluffy pillow. Her right arm is tucked under his pillow, still warm and weighed down by the heaviness of his head, just how she likes it. “Shh, Scott.”

“Fine,” he replies, in a teasing voice. “I’ll just get rid of your Valentine’s Day present, then.”

Her eyes fly open in excitement and she rolls over, suddenly very awake. “Present?” He doesn’t shower her with actual gifts often, nor vice versa; they’ve known each other for far too long and simply buy things on a spur of the moment instead.

He hums, and she scrutinizes him to try to figure out what it could possibly be. His eyes sparkle with mirth at her reaction, and he tells her, “Think of it as motivation to get out of bed today.”

The light is filtering through the ceiling-length windows in their hotel, showing her the landscape of the beautiful sea when she looks outside of it. Something that Tessa learned after she and Scott began sleeping together regularly was that they both enjoy waking up to the brightness of natural light. She loves that about him; she loves finding similarities between them when they’re such different people. There are countless things she didn’t know about Scott before she finally started dating him.

Such as: how wonderful and relieving it feels to admit to him that she loves him, and to hear him tell her he loves her too, without anything clouding it.

Such as: the way his fingers feel against the curve of her breastbone when he’s warming her up, and that she really likes it when he nips at the centre of her collarbone.

Such as: his beautiful sleepworn face, hair unruly and sticking up in every direction, with his body warm from just waking up; it makes her want to melt against him, his soft eyes and plush mouth and lazy grin.

He props his head on his arm with the sheets at his waist, bicep bulging due to the extension. He isn’t wearing a shirt. He doesn’t wear one when he goes to bed, deciding to wear only boxers because he tends to run hot. And Jesus Christ, is he hot. They might not be competition ready anymore, but they’re both still fit as hell from their regular workouts to keep up their health.

She scans the expanse of his body, resting a hand on his waist and using her grip to inch herself closer to him. “Good morning,” she whispers when she reaches him. She kisses him in a place she can reach that isn’t his mouth, right on the sharp underside of his jaw. She has this thing with morning breath. “Happy Cupid’s Day.”

“So traditional,” he murmurs, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek. It covers half her head, which would be amusing if it wasn’t so attractive. “No one calls it that anymore.”

“Hm,” she acknowledges, wrapping her leg around his waist in a pseudo-hug. “I like calling it Cupid’s Day more than Valentine’s Day.”

He moves his head down to nuzzles against her neck and she squirms, feeling ticklish. She pushes him away, but keeps her leg firm around him, not wanting him to go too far. “You know,” he starts, with his _I-have-a-brilliant-idea_ voice, “if we were still living in a time where they called it Cupid’s Day, we wouldn’t be able to do what we’re about to do today.”

She moves a fraction of an inch to get a better look at him. “What’s that? And why haven’t I been informed of this plan?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he tells her, hesitant and hopeful. “But…”

She tenses slightly, intuitively knowing where this might be going. “Yes?”

He takes a breath and smooths his hand over her hip. Her tank top had ridden up in her sleep, so she can feel the roughness of his hands against her skin. “Let’s go to the courthouse today.”

She takes it in. She swallows. She stays quiet.

“Tess?” he prompts, when she still hasn’t replied.

“No.” Unfortunately, it comes out stronger than she had meant for it to. It sounds almost forceful, and Scott drops his hand from her waist as if she’s rejected him. Which, she supposes, she has, but she also hasn’t.

“Tessa,” he starts, like he’s approaching a scared animal. “Why not?”

She scrambles for a proper reason in her mind, not wanting to tell him just yet. “It’s too cheesy to do it today.”

He narrows his eyes, scanning her face, and then she sees him realize she’s full of shit. He rolls his eyes. “But you love stuff like that, though?”

Ugh, he’s right. That’s what she gets for being with someone who knows every single inch of her. “I—”

He uses his hand to push her against the bed so that she’s lying flat on it, and he moves to rest on top of her. He’s straddling her body like this, knees bent on either side of her. He knows she loves it—the feel of him on top of her, all of his muscle weighing her down. She likes when he doesn’t hold back with her, because he’s aware of her strength and he knows that she can handle it.

He’s watches her with a raw look, the one he gets when he’s about to get very real. Scott’s fingers trace the crown of her head, and he leans down to kiss her temple, lips lingering against her. “Tell me the truth.”

She shakes her head, feeling stubborn, but he must know he has her because by association with that movement, she’s admitted there is something wrong.

He runs his thumb over the flesh of her lip, pulling until he sees white, and she snipes her teeth at him in response.

He lets out a breathy laugh at her predictability and kisses the underside of her eye, then the corner of her mouth. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Her heart flutters. He knows exactly how to get to her, she thinks, and sighs.

As if he can sense her inner turmoil, he rests his hands on her shoulders to massage her. “Tell me.”

She doesn’t know where to begin. “Is that why you decided on here? Catania?”

He doesn’t anticipate this question, it seems, from the nervous way he licks his lips. “I mean, not entirely. But I’ll admit that I took into consideration some laws when I looked up the list of potential destinations that you gave me.”

They’ve been vacationing together in Sicily for the past week, in celebration of their Olympic anniversary. After they won silver in Sochi, despite trying their hardest to secure gold again for Canada, they decided that they were burnt out and needed a proper break from competitive skating. They’ve been working on individual projects for the past year of their lives, exploring their many options, but ultimately always coming back together.

Sochi had brought them closer together than ever. It was probably the second hardest thing they’ve ever endured together—excluding everything pre-Vancouver, of course. Olympic years were oddly tainted for them, together or apart, and they both wanted some time to breathe after such a high-intensity quad. If they returned again, it would be on their terms, surrounded by a team of people who truly understood and prioritized them, and it would be because they were sure that being destroyed by another Olympics was not an inevitability.

So, they were waiting—for more than just skating, actually.

“You want to get married,” she says, voice flat and monotone. She would worry that her tone would bruise him, but she knows him by now; he won’t be offended.

His eyes crinkle, but his lips don’t smile yet. “You don’t?”

“You know that it’s not that I don’t.”

She bites her lip, worrying it with her teeth, and he uses his finger to stop her from doing any serious damage. “Things have changed, Tess,” he reminds her. “We’ve consulted so many people, and properly talked it through. We can actually do it now.”

In their world, marriage isn’t extravagant and beautiful, and proposals are a waste of time. Soulmates are higher than law, and marriage is a petty replacement for it. He’s never proposed to her, and she’s never proposed to him, but they’ve discussed marriage millions of times. But the reality is that marriage is a lukewarm semblance for the bond that they share between them.

“I know that we _can_ do it,” she replies, knowing he has a point.

“So, what? You want to keep living in sin?” he teases, pressing his thumb against the pulse point on her neck. Her heart races beneath his finger, and she moves to settle her palms on his hips that are still settled on her body, but he captures her wrists in his hands in a move that surprises her and holds them above her head.

She jerks up against him unconsciously. The pads of his thumbs rub over the inside of her wrist, where it is bare and no soulmark has appeared. She shivers regardless.

“Now who’s being traditional?” she snorts. She struggles out of his hold, and he drops her arms so that she can have agency again, but still presses her harder into the bed in retaliation. He doesn’t look offended at all by the fact that she’s basically rejecting him, surprisingly; typically, he gets upset during these conversations where she tells him that marriage would be futile.

He slips the strap of her tank top down her arm, lower so that more skin is revealed. “I just want to have another name for you.”

She laughs, and he kisses her shoulder chastely. “Don’t like calling me your girlfriend?” she asks, knowing that he does kind of hate that term.

He shakes his head. “You’re my soulmate,” he whispers, like a secret, one that only she knows. That name always leaves her breathless, and she feels as if he’s reached inside her chest to hold her heart in his hands, squeezing tight. She’d let him, to be honest—she trusts him enough.

(He tells everyone that she’s his soulmate now. His family, and his friends, and after Sochi, the world as well. He leaves his wrists naked when he leaves the house and lets people make their assumptions, because Scott couldn’t give less of a fuck about what people have to say about their arrangement. After a while, neither could she.)

He presses another kiss her shoulder, this time open-mouthed, and she swallows against the lump that’s built up in her throat. “Scott,” she says quietly, with feeling. He knows what it does to her to be called that by him, utterly possessed and wholly taken.

Scott tugs her top lower until the rest of her chest is completely exposed. His eyes darken as they take in the sight of her, and he proceeds to lock their gazes as he licks over her with the wet flat of his tongue. She shudders as he sucks a bruise into her; he knows her body better than she knows it herself. He holds her nipple between his teeth for a few seconds, not moving, watching her quietly, before he opens his lips around her again to leave another open-mouthed kiss. He pulls away, whispering, “soulmate,” into the crevice between her breasts, and the air leaves her lungs.

She lets out a soft, involuntary sound—hurt and healed all at once.

She steadies herself. “Why else do you want it?” she asks, once she’s able to breathe again.

He smiles against her body, and he bites the tight skin he’s resting against. “I want to be able to see you immediately if you’re ever at the doctor or, God forbid, at the hospital again.”

She runs her fingers through his hair, fisting it in her hand. She hurts, remembering what it was like for them when she went in for her second surgery. He was unable to see her until a they lifted the family-only visitor policy a few days later, and she had missed him so dearly despite his messages soothing her loneliness. She can still recall the ferocity in how he kissed her when finally saw him, pouring every ounce of his soul into it, reminding her that he was there, present, and that he’d never leave her by choice again.

He pulls away from her chest, and she traces her finger down the length of nose. “What else?”

He knocks her finger away—he always said his nose was so big that it could be used as a weapon, but she loves it; she thinks it gives him character and perfectly suits the lines of his face. “You know what else.”

And yeah, she does. She knows of how he yearns to have a family with her, to have someone who’s half of them both. She knows that if they can’t, that he’d eventually make amends with it, and that he’d be alright with adoption as well; it’s another thing that they’ve discussed, sometimes during their road trips, sometimes during their late nights. She also knows that they have to be married for it.

Her eyes sting, but she blinks away her tears, not wanting Scott to see.

The truth is that Tessa isn’t afraid anymore, she hasn’t been for a very long time, but she’s still angry. The truth is that she detests that it’s up to the law—that she somehow needs documentation to prove her love with Scott is real, and that it won’t even be enough at the end of the day because they aren’t legally soulmates. The truth is that she hates that fact, and while she knows Scott loves her immensely, she still hasn’t entirely come to terms with the universe having shafted them in that regard.

Scott senses the shift in her emotions. “Hey,” he whispers, when her blinking has subsided. “Where’d you go?”

She tries to appear calm, but her uneven intake of breath gives her away. “I’m still angry,” she finally admits, letting him see her frustration. “I’m so, so angry.”

He cups her head in his hands, an all-encompassing safe haven, nodding in understanding. “I know, baby.” He presses his forehead against hers, and she closes her eyes. “But we’re defying all odds, here. We know the chances are stacked against us, but we’ve got this. We’re telling the universe to fuck itself.”

She rests her palm against the nape of his neck, playing with the lock on his chain. The cross is still gone, so it remains pendantless, signifying a loss of faith. Years after she noticed it, she had asked him why, and he told her that their situation reminded him of the power of choice. Every day he chooses to love her, he had said, chooses to go against what others decided for him, and chooses to rebel against what he was once taught. He loves it, the freedom and power this disaster has granted him.

His exhale brings her back, and she opens her eyes to look up at him, not saying a word.

“Sweet saint of mine,” he murmurs, pulling back and twining his fingers in her hair. “Let everything go. Life is ours now.”

He rolls off of her without, leaving it at that. She watches as he rummages through his suitcase, as if he’s looking for something, and when he seems to find it, he stands with his back facing her. She sits up, wondering what he’s thinking.

Then, abruptly, he turns and leaves something on his pillow. “Your present,” Scott tells her softly, and gives no other explanation. He walks away and into the bathroom, and she’s left staring at the gift.

In that tiny thing, wrapped with a green ribbon, she knows there is a ring. It couldn’t possibly be anything else. She feels over the velvet on the outside of the box; it’s so soft and unassuming.

She doesn’t need to look inside, she decides. She doesn’t care what it looks like at all; she knows for a fact that he picked something that she would adore with care and consideration.

She hears the flush of the toilet and decides to stand from the bed, stretching the sleep from her legs and padding toward the bathroom while she fixes her shirt. She’s only in a pair of cotton underwear and the tank top she’d gone to bed in, but Italy in February is not nearly as cold as it may be in Canada. Their room protects them, insulated and filled with heat.

She stands next to him in front of the mirror, joining him in brushing their teeth together and taking turns to spit in the sink. She knows he’s watching her in the mirror, noting her ringless hand, and contemplating what it means. She gargles with the mouthwash after he’s taken his turn, and decides to hop on the counter to apply her morning moisturizer.

She sits on the counter to finish her ritual and she notices that he’s begun to apply shaving cream. His facial hair isn’t that long, so she’s surprised but unbothered. She prefers him clean-shaven anyway, but she usually just lets him do whatever he wants with it.

After he takes his razor in his hand and wets it with water, she stops him. She reaches out to grab it from him, and he lets her, loosening his grip on it. She twists and reaches out to pull him toward her.

He smiles, but continues not to say anything, just takes the time to watch the focused expression on her face as she shaves the side of his jaw, over his cheeks, above his lips. So gentle and careful, the same as his eyes when he looks at her. She tries her best not to nick him, not wanting to hurt him. He stands steady, entrusting his face to her in the same way he does his heart.

He’s quiet, and she’s quiet, and when she’s done, he hands her the aftershave. This, she knows, he enjoys her doing—rubbing the balm into his skin, pressing it in until it dissolves completely, in the same way he does in the palms of her hands. There’s no time he loves her more than when she’s like this, taking care of him like it’s the most important responsibility that’s been awarded to her, and she loves nothing more than doing it.

When she’s done, she wraps her legs around him so he can’t move, and twists again so she can wash her hands with soap. She flicks the water in his face and he laughs, a delightful, carefree sound that cracks her heart open and leaves it bare and vulnerable for him to behold. She hugs him around his midsection, drying her hands on his old white shirt just like she knows he hates, and whispers into the crook of his neck, “You can marry me.”

He’s quiet, but she feels the slow movement of his face morphing into smile from where he’s rested his cheek on top of her head. “Thank you for granting me permission.”

She nips at his neck playfully. “You’re welcome.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:  
> A maid of Dian's this advantage found,  
> And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep  
> In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;  
> Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love  
> A dateless lively heat, still to endure,  
> And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove  
> Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
> 
> But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,  
> The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;  
> I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,  
> And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,  
>   But found no cure: the bath for my help lies  
>   Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.  
>                   — _Sonnet 153_ , Shakespeare.
> 
> As always, you can find me on my [writing Tumblr](http://falsettodrop.tumblr.com), or for fandom and figure skating, on my [sideblog](http://viewsfromthestyx.tumblr.com).


End file.
